Nameless

Chapter 4: Size 24 Or Less.

The next few weeks was spent in over-thinking and over-analyzing everything everyone said and did. I could not allow my parents, nor the teachers to think even for a second that something was going on between me and Manan. Should they get even a whiff of this news, or rather rumour, I would be beyond dead. I shuddered at the thought of my father's yelling and my mother'a stern look of disapproval. So obviously, I tried to avoid Manan. How stupid was I to think he'd even look at a girl like me?! How could I even imagine that he'd like me?! I knew he probably like Aanchal. Or Anika! Ofcourse! That's why he's talking to me....! I thought, feeling ridiculous for even fostering the thought that he could think of me as a friend, forget more than that. Who was I? I asked the part of me that was adamant to believe he wanted to be my friend. I am a nobody, I am no good. I'm not pretty, I'm not funny, smart, witty. I'm quirky, and I'm emotional. Nobody would like me. Aanchal or Anika on the other hand.... They were your typical Indian beauties. Anika was smart and funny too. So obviously he was only talking to me to get to Anika, and I wouldn't be surprised if he asked me about her anytime soon...

For those few weeks in school, and at home, I was depressed. I moped around, sauntered to class and sat quietly alone in a window in the bus. Anika didn't once ask me if I was okay, obviously too busy caught up with her love-life. Karan had just kissed her, and she did not hold back any details. Going on to talk of how much they were in love, I nearly slapped her to get her out of that spiral. Nearly. Nobody asked me if I was alright, and though I welcomed the solitude to marinate in my misery, I did wish longingly for someone to worry about me. But then, I chided my self for even thinking that I was worth worrying about. I saw Anika and Aanchal and Sanchita and Simran, all of the popular girls, the fun people, walk around school. They talked to everyone, even boys, and everyone laughed with them. And what did they have in common? Size 24 or less jeans. Size S or smaller tops. Size 24B or 24A bras. I envied them and everytime i saw them, i felt like screaming with frustration and crying with depression. What was I? Size 32 jeans, wearing XL or larger tees, and a 32C cup. A big bum and a stuffed stomach did not make for a pretty girl. Obviously nobody wanted to talk to me, I was a mess. Obviously that's why people laughed at me.

I watched them for a few more weeks, until finally, oneday, I had enough. I didn't eat breakfast or lunch, just a fruit for dinner. I was dizzy and nearly fainted, but I held on. I followed this fast peacefully for the next few days, but then my mother descended. "Ayrah, if you don't eat properly, you'll fall ill. And with your exams around the corner, we can't have that kanna!" She scolded me. Apparently one of my teachers had told her that I had not been feeling well and she had mentioned my trip to the nurse's office. My mother forced me to eat. That night, after a dinner of rasam rice and curd rice, I felt fat. I felt the fat I side me, and I wanted it out. On the way to the bathroom, I stopped in front of my full-length mirror, and looked at myself. I looked like a tent, with my loose top and baggy jeans. Well, actually, they were sposed to be skinny jeans. I lifted my shirt up and turned to the side. I poke my belly, and it wobbled in response, mocking me and my size 32 jeans. That was more than I could take and with hot tears of misery stinging my eyes, i went into the bathroom and cried on the floor. I was fat, I was ugly, and I was a cry-baby. Why would anybody even be my friend?!

I made up my mind. That fat was coming out, one way or another. I bent over the toilet bowl, tears rolling down my cheeks, and tried to get myself to vomit. I wanted to be skinny. I wanted to be pretty. I could do nothing about my face, yet, but could have a hot body, I thought. I shoved my fingers down my throat, willing myself to throw up. Fresh tears spilled on the toilet seat and my gagging noise ceased. I fell against the locked door, and rocked, hitting my back to it with every rock. I had scared myself. What was I doing? A few more minutes of rocking, then I rose. I stared into the bloodshot eyes of the girl in the mirror. She looked sad, and broken, and a fresh wave of tears assaulted me again. I spotted my toothbrush and stopped. Of course! The toothbrush! The back would surely making the food come out...! I thought. I saw my hand reaching for it, as if a ghost watching my own body do that. Then I stopped, and looked in the bathroom mirror.

The girl in the mirror was a mess. puffy red eyes and tears stained cheeks. drool down her chin and bags under her eyes. The girl looked at me and saw Ayrah. This was not me, I thought. I was strong, independent and above all, I was confident. No, I told myself. Enough was enough. I washed my face and steeled my new resolution. I would not do this anymore. I was not going to be that sad little scared girl anymore. I was a fatty, and I was happy... I was going to show the world that I was, and will forevermore be, Ayrah.